Chapter One Hundred and Sixty
Hanging in the Balance
Commodore Charles Tucker III
I don't know how, but Malcolm's still alive by the time Jeremy Lucas and a crash team explode into the room.
It takes half an hour before they manage to stabilize him enough to be moved. Then, lifting him like he's made of wafer-thin glass that's already cracked across and across, they transfer him to a gurney. All the protocols for clearing the corridors and the turbo-lift for emergency transportation to the hospital are already in place, and they whisk him out. He's too close to death for them even to risk moving him by transporter.
My hands are covered in blood. Malcolm's blood. I pressed them against the slit in his belly where his life was pumping out of him, and watched Liz Cutler stand there across the room staring at him, her face like a death mask.
With it being a medical emergency, Major Crawley and her team have arrived. Obviously she's seen who's been carried out of here, and asked whether there were any more casualties. I'm guessing she stood watching till the gurney and its crowd of attendants had vanished before she rang the chime and asked for admittance, leaving the rest of them in the corridor to await her orders.
"Are you all right, Commodore?" she asks sharply. I'm guessing my face must be damn near as white as Cutler's is, and I drag a shaking hand across my mouth, probably leaving a smear of blood on it.
"I'm fine, Major. Please escort Lieutenant Cutler here to the brig – I have some questions to ask her when I'm cleaned up. Please make sure she's confined in complete safety an' post a guard on her at all times. An' inform Colonel Burnell what's happened an' ask him to stand by to report to me."
Liz's huge, unblinking eyes are fixed on the pool of blood soaking into the carpet and the slurry of broken cake and china. I'm not sure she even hears what I've said to Crawley, because she jumps when the major's hand closes on her upper arm. She doesn't say a goddamn word as she's led out of the room.
For a moment I stand absolutely still, staring at that obscene great stain on the floor. Then before I have time to move, the vomit rushes up my throat. Before I even know what's happening I'm on my knees puking my guts up, and in between heaves I'm howling and sobbing, "Liz, what the fuck? What the FUCK?!"
=/\=
It takes me a while to steady myself down, and a hot shower helps, though it feels like I've scrubbed half the skin off my hands before I don't see red on them anymore.
I'm kind of thankful that T'Pol's not here. She's helping out with a project up in the design labs, where her expertise is invaluable, slave or not, and I doubt she's even heard that there's been a near-killing. At a guess she's sensed something's wrong with me, because as I come out of the shower I get a call through the comm. asking if I need her help – this mental thing we have still freaks me out sometimes – but I tell her I'm okay. But for the fact that she's in a public place and almost certainly not alone I'd reassure her some more and tell her I'll talk things over with her later, but that's not something others need to hear. As far as most people know, her functions apart from helping out with technical stuff amount to opening her legs for me when I'm horny, and that's the way that's safest for both of us. Still, I know from her tone that she's not convinced, and that she'll be keeping a wary ear open for the rumors that usually fly round this place like a horde of damned mosquitoes.
It's probably not the best idea ever to drink on an extremely empty stomach, but I sink a straight double shot of tequila all the same. I have to have something to steady me, and if I can't have a Vulcan mind-meld I'll have to make do with a slug of the strongest stuff I have in the cupboard. Undoubtedly Anna would give me hell for mistreating a fine drink like this – especially over Malcolm; she's been true to her word as far as being civil to him but I don't think she's spared so much as a thought to burying the hatchet anywhere other than his head if he just once gives her a plausible reason and half a chance – but I don't feel like I have any choice. Not today.
The tequila's so strong it makes me shudder as it goes down, but the warmth of it feels good in my icy-cold stomach and sure enough I feel better for having it. A part of me wants another, and another, and another, as many as it takes for me to forget, but that's not a luxury I can afford. At least not here, and not now.
I wait for a moment afterwards, then press the comm. button and ask Austin to meet me at the brig.
=/\=
Always efficient, he's there when I arrive. Under one arm he has a PADD tucked ready, and I realize dully that he has to record everything that's said for the purposes of the official investigation. Testimony gathered here and now, before the prisoner has had time to settle down and think through what she's going to say – or, worse still, to get advice from somewhere – may well be the most valuable the prosecution will get.
There are two MACOs outside the door of the brig. A third is stationed inside, motionless, watching its only inmate.
Liz is sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the bunk. She must hear us come in, but she doesn't look up. The veil of her fair hair is falling forward, hiding her face. It makes me a little bit sick again when I see what she's doing: over and over and over, she's turning the bracelet on her wrist. A duranium bracelet, with a Celtic design on it that represents an oak tree.
There's a small conference room just up the corridor. I order Burnell to let her out and bring her up to me there.
While I'm waiting, I stand at the window looking at the stars. Three of Jupiter's moons are visible too, pockmarked with craters.
I haven't heard from Jeremy Lucas yet. I don't know if that's a bad thing or a good thing.
When the door opens I turn around and sit at one side of the table, about the middle. Burnell guides Liz to sit opposite me. As soon as she's seated he hands something to me in a sealed clear plastic envelope, murmuring that she passed it over to Major Crawley before she locked her up, but that he hasn't opened or examined it apart from checking it's completely safe. That, as the presiding officer, is my job.
Time was when I'd have laughed at the idea of little Liz Cutler handing me a bomb.
But as it is, it's just a PADD. An ordinary PADD with the Medical Department insignia on the corner, and probably hers. I set it down on the table, while she goes on turning the bracelet, not looking up. Burnell retreats to the head of the table, where he switches on his own device's recording function.
"Lieutenant." I keep my voice quiet.
No answer.
"Lieutenant, you're accused of the attempted–" 'attempted', sweet Jesus Christ let it still be 'attempted'– "murder of General Malcolm Reed, Chief of Imperial Security. I'm warnin' you here an' now, that even apart from me seein' you do it with my own two eyes, Colonel Burnell here will confirm the existence of surveillance footage that'll stand up in any court of law. So unless you're plannin' on wastin' all our time denyin' it, I'd appreciate any explanation you may have for your actions."
No answer.
"Lieutenant, in default of any response from you, you will be assumed to be pleading guilty." Burnell's voice is measured. "I strongly advise you to co-operate with the Commodore."
No answer.
Well. The only possible source of answers if Liz isn't going to give us any is the PADD she handed over. With the recording device's lens watching me I break open the seal, activate the power and watch as the screen springs to life.
"Is there somethin' on here you want us to see?" I ask, scrolling rapidly through the files.
No answer. But though her hair's still falling forward, hiding her face, this time I catch the tiny wink of light on a tear falling into her lap. She's crying, without making a sound.
It doesn't matter a rap, not now, not this time. I have to find some explanation for what the fuck she thought she was doing, putting a knife into Malcolm's guts like she was filleting a goddamn fish.
Most of the files are standard documents, but the most recent is a video. A swipe of the thumb reveals that it came from an external source.
Was she acting under threat? Blackmailed? I can't even imagine what sort of leverage would be needed to make her act against Malcolm. Right up till an hour ago I'd have sworn on anything you care to put in front of me that she loved the guy more than life itself. She'd have thrown herself out an airlock to save him.
"Is this something important? This video?" I demand, turning the PADD to show her and the watching lens.
No answer. But the fair hair moves imperceptibly, in the faintest of nods.
"Where did you get this from?"
No answer.
"Will it shed any light on your actions?"
Another tiny nod.
I need no further encouragement. Watched by the lens, I press the icon to play the file.
It's Malcolm, but a Malcolm who seems to have been transformed back to the sneering little bastard he was aboard Enterprise. His voice comes through clearly.
'...Pathetic little slut. I can't tell you what a relief it will be to see the back of her when our plans come to fruition. I'd sell her to a comfort house except nobody'd pay to fuck her – even for free it was only one step up from wanking.
'And as for that misshapen oaf Tucker, with his ridiculous vision of some Paradise of Fools...'
The recording cuts off then. The whole thing is clearly a clip from a longer transmission, and when it comes to an end I halt the playback, my heart banging in my chest and my head in an absolute whirl.
What the fuck–?
The tears are falling faster. Now, even in spite of my fury at her, I can understand her actions a little better. It must have been terrible enough listening to the man she adores saying those hateful, spiteful things about her, without having to listen to it again in the presence of two other people also finding out what he truly thought of her.
Everything I thought I believed about him is coming apart. The son of a bitch must have been the world's greatest actor all this time. I thought he'd seen sense, I thought he'd realized that life doesn't have to be one long war against the rest of the Universe. As for what he felt about Liz, he had me fooled there, too. I thought he was really starting to feel something for her.
"Commodore," Burnell says quietly. "Before accepting this recording as genuine, may I suggest that it be subjected to analysis?"
I blink at him. Hell, I've been so appalled by what I've heard that for a minute I actually stopped thinking like an engineer. Comes to something when I have to be nudged by my own former Head of Security, though I suppose he's well trained and well paid to be a suspicious bastard...
But the fact is, which he doesn't know, I know that recordings like this can be faked so well they're practically fucking perfect. Em and Alpha got Baird to create the spoofing program which he later adapted to allow me to put on Reed's face and take control of the MACOs till I could organize the genuine article – Burnell himself, fielding all the stuff that Malcolm was far too ill back then to deal with.
"That's an excellent idea, Colonel," I reply, shutting down the PADD and restoring it to its envelope. "I'll have someone run tests on it an' copy you in on the results. In the meantime, this interview is suspended. Please escort Lieutenant Cutler back to the brig."
Through the blonde curtain of hair, I sense rather than see a pair of desperate eyes straining at me.
"You mean ... you mean it isn't real?" she whispers.
"Lieutenant, all I can say right now is that given the right equipment an' enough determination, pretty well anything can be faked. I'm gonna get this tested an' then we'll know."
She doesn't say anything else, just folds up over her crossed arms. Burnell almost has to carry her out of the room, but he does it gently enough; I guess he knows now why she did what she did. And finally it makes sense to me why after stabbing the man she loved she handed him the knife to kill her in return. She couldn't live with his contempt, but she couldn't live without him, either.
AUTHORS' WARNING: THE NEXT CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF SELF-HARM. IF SUCH MATERIAL UPSETS OR TRIGGERS YOU, PLEASE DO NOT READ IT. IT IS PRIMARILY CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT. YOU WILL NOT LOSE THE PLOT BY SKIPPING CHAPTER 161.
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